Victorian Women and Singing While Sinning
by Aimee in Whaleland
Summary: Victoria's view on her not-so-happily-ever-after.


**A/N: **It is one a.m. on the morning of Christmas Eve, and I cannot sleep. I have decided to write a fanfiction. Yes, I like Corpse Bride. Yes, I also write incredibly depressing stories. That plus this equals a fanfiction. Do the maths.

Oh and erm, Victoria P.O.V.

Rated for... well, Corpse Bride themed... themes.

AU, as if Victoria didn't get to the church on time.

**Disclaimer: **No, I don't own Corpse Bride as I am a girl and therefore am not Tim Burton. But I do own several other things including a movie about a walrus meeting a monster and going on a series of adventures, if anyone wants to write a fanfic on that?!

**Victorian Women and Singing While Sinning**

In the end, I knew I wouldn't get my happily ever after. I'd like to think he didn't either, because everyone can be selfish at times no matter how much they care for a person, but I know that not to be the case.

The last time we spoke, he hated her. He hated everything about her, and longed to return to me. But it seems that nowadays, things change like the wind. Perhaps faster. I would not know; I have been confined to my room for so long now. Things do change though, for I seem to find myself married. And you should know it's unexpected. These were some of the last few words he spoke to me, and I shall never forget them.

Ridiculous really, how I can still be thinking of him after so many months have passed me by. But I look at the piano in the house every day and think of what could have been; what almost was. I try to hate her for it, but how could I hate someone that makes him so happy? I say that all I want is for him to be happy, but that is not the entire truth. What I really want is for him to be happy with me.

I know deep in my soul, which according to Pastor Galswells I lost when I made my 'claims about the living marrying the dead', that I do not have long left on this earth. My husband only married me for my money, of which my family has none. Without money, we are destined for the poorhouse and so I cannot imagine him sticking around long. From what I have heard, he's not one for hanging around.

Do you know how hard it is to attend the funeral of the love of your life, knowing he is with the love of his _after_life? No, I would think you do not. Well let me tell you. You have to sit there along with his mourning family and friends, though I will not claim to have not cried for him, while they tell you things about his death that you know are not true. You are told that their death was an accident, and that they have gone to their eternal rest with the hope of rising again. His death was not an accident; I was there and I saw it, and I know that he does not wish to rise again now that he is with her. Sometimes I feel I should hate him for what he did. I loved him, or at least I believe I did, and he left me for another woman. But I do not hate him. It would be selfish of me to deny him the happiness he has with her, to keep him here against his will like a butterfly in a glass cage; able to see the outside, the better life, but not able to reach it.

It is winter now, and it is so very cold. We do not have money and so I am forced to wear my summer dresses. My husband is not pleased with this, for he has no money either and is obviously not accustomed to living this way of life. I have caught him eying other women in the town, richer women, and he does not try to hide it. When he enters my chambers and demands that I walk with him, I know what to expect.

We walk through the town, over the bridge and into the forest. I imagine the two of them, the love of my life with the love of his, taking this exact same route many months ago. Somehow I cannot picture them walking as we are. We are silent and do not look at each other, whereas she is loud and lively, and makes enough of a commotion for the both of them though he is often subdued. No directions are given to me, but someone my feet seem to know where they are going and he seems to know what he is doing. I wonder if he has done this before, and I am afraid of the answer.

He stops in the middle of the forest, and I stop beside him. Standing together, from a distance, we probably look like a normal couple. Not that there is anyone around to see us. The forest is empty, and it is clear that he has thought this out thoroughly. It sickens me to know that he will get away with this; that there could be others in the future like me, but I am feeling too selfish to care. It was once said to me that the dead are carefree, and I am dead on the inside so I assume I am included in this.

I do not put up a fight and this surprises but does not deter him. Briefly, I wonder whether I will be found after this is over. I quickly realise I do not care; mother and father never thought well of me, and they will probably not be too phased by my disappearance. He seems to be taking his time, like he is waiting for something. Perhaps for my fear to settle in, but I do not fear what is to come. For a moment, it feels like they are with me. The two of them together, because of course they will not be separated, telling me that I should not be afraid. I am not.

I can imagine other women in my situation, perhaps even her at one stage, sensing what was to become of them and praying. Praying for their life, for the chance of rescue they knew that they would never have. I know that their prayers were not answered. I know that it is time, and sickeningly I hear him begin to sing a little tune to himself. Yes, he is well practised in this art. I am half-tempted to sing along, because what else is there to do?

My name is Victoria Barkis, and I have nothing to live for. Everything I cared about is dead, and morbid though it may sound I wish to join them. And so I do not pray for rescue, because I know the chances are next to none. Instead I pray for the only thing there is left for me. I pray that I will have eternal happiness like the two of them, and be as carefree as I have been told they are. I pray for death, because for me it is the only thing worth living for.

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**A/N:** Wow, slightly morbid. But that is the theme I am going for now, nice and ready for Christmas. I would write a wonderful jolly Christmas piece but firstly I am too tired and secondly Corpse Bride is not a wonderful jolly film.

Please review, because to me reviews are like tea and I could really do with some tea right now. Flames will be used to light Victoria's living room fire, and maybe Victor's candle. This really is the best I can do at one a.m.


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